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 IPS 3531 
 ].t^69 R5 
 1 1916 
 ICopy 1 
 
 RHYMES 
 
 OF AN 
 
 AMATEUR 
 POET 
 
 « 
 
Rkymes 
 
 of an Amateur 
 
 Poet 
 
 By HAROLD RPARSONS 
 
 Rhymes are the right of any man 
 To write, to read or to spurn; 
 
 If you write them you know, 
 
 If you read maybe so, 
 If you spurn them 
 It's your right to burn them. 
 
 Published by 
 
 HAROLD R. PARSONS. 
 
 San Francisco 
 
 1916. 
 

 Copyright, 1916 
 
 by 
 
 HAROLD R. PARSONS. 
 
 The use of any of this collection of verses for pub- 
 lic performance is strictly prohibited without consent 
 of the author. If this permission is desired it may be 
 obtained, with conditions, upon application in care of 
 Joseph P. Ryan, 300 California Street, San Francisco, Cal. 
 
 m -3 1916 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Spoon of Tin 1 
 
 An Old Game 3 
 
 The Ocean of Life 5 
 
 A Caller 6 
 
 The Scarlet Trail 8 
 
 He Suffers 12 
 
 Love's Memory 13 
 
 Inspiration 14 
 
 Two Little Lovers 15 
 
 Newsie Philosophy 17 
 
 Mother, God Bless Your Heart 21 
 
 The Drama of '85 26 
 
APOLOGIES 
 
 I would like to elucidate one important fact 
 concerning this publication. These verses were not 
 written to inflame the emotion of the sentimen- 
 talist, to agree with the optimist, gibe the pessi- 
 mist nor to propound the principles of psychology. 
 They were just written. If they afford a very 
 little pleasure the author will consider himself 
 handsomely rewarded for his humble efforts. 
 
 I wish to acknowledge with gratitude, the as- 
 sistance of Edward Gage, who suggested the ideas 
 for two of the verses in this collection. 
 
 —THE AUTHOR. 
 
With brotherly affection and for 
 kind assistance in one way and 
 another I dedicate these rhymes to 
 
 CLARENCE H. HILL 
 
RHYMES OF AN AMATEUR POET 
 
 THE SPOON OF TIN. 
 
 A baby was born with a spoon in his mouth 
 And the spoon was made of tin. 
 When he grew to young manhood, 
 The rocks in his path 
 
 Made him swear there were none like him. 
 He lived in fear of the coming day ; 
 He forgot that his mother had taught him to pray; 
 He lost track of the place where contentment is found; 
 He could not even utter a pleasant sound; 
 He forgot the dear arms mother cuddled him in, 
 And all for the reason, his spoon was of tin. 
 
 * * * 
 
 As the story goes, he stumbled on 
 
 In a world where foul winds had blown ; 
 
 Until one day, though it may seem a tale, 
 
 His eye caught a gleam from behind a stone. 
 
 He rushed to the spot ; he fell on his knees ; 
 
 His face was green with greed. 
 
 Then he selfishly clutched his find to his breast, 
 
 For that was the fellow's breed. 
 
 *Twas a spoon he'd found lying there on the ground, 
 
 But this spoon was made of gold. 
 
 He laughed, he wept, he danced with glee, 
 
 For the man had found what he sought, you see. 
 
 The spoon of tin had a rancid taste, 
 
 While the one of gold was sweet; 
 
 So he threw his old tin spoon away 
 
 And crushed it under his feet. 
 
 P««e ott« 
 
RHYMES OF AN AxMATEUR POET 
 
 The lust for gold had a death-like hold 
 
 On this man with a taste for spoons. 
 
 He gripped the gold in his greedy teeth 
 
 And crunched for a month of moons, 
 
 'Till soon it was bent and twisted 
 
 And punctured with many holes. 
 
 Now he can't understand, perhaps never will, 
 
 Why he failed so close to his goal. 
 
 Yet the fact remains, he ruined his spoon, 
 
 He threw it away in disgust. 
 
 Now he wanders again as he did at the start 
 
 Denouncing his God unjust. 
 
 Years have elapsed and the man has passed 
 
 Through a practical hell on earth. 
 
 The trail has been long, the idea wrong; 
 
 They charged him a terrible prices for his birth. 
 
 There he goes, still stumbling on 
 
 Through the valley of never-get-there ; 
 
 When suddenly out of the derelict's throat 
 
 Comes a shout of the wildest joy — 
 
 There on the ground, where he'd thrown it away, 
 
 Lay his childhood's unwelcome toy. 
 
 He snatched it up and thrust between 
 
 His parched and swollen lips. 
 
 It soothed his soul, it cleared his brain. 
 
 All thought of the golden spoon was slain. 
 
 * * * 
 
 He stands at the gate of contentment now 
 And though he is haggard and thin, 
 He will tell you a spoon of gold doesn't taste — ■ 
 So sweet as a spoon of tin. 
 
 Page two 
 
RHYMES OF AN AMATEUR POET 
 
 AN OLD GAME 
 
 A pretty girl, 
 
 A handsome chap, 
 
 Some one to introduce them. 
 
 Sweet dreams of her, 
 
 Fond dreams of him, 
 
 For the rest no need induce them. 
 
 He calls twice weekly. 
 
 Then three times, 
 
 Now four, five, six and seven. 
 
 He leaves at nine, 
 
 And later ten. 
 
 Then finally eleven. 
 
 His appetite forsakes him ; 
 
 His clubs don't fascinate ; 
 
 For friends no need. 
 
 With love sick seed 
 
 He daily loses weight. 
 
 She much the same 
 
 Since first he came 
 
 Is counting out the hours ; 
 
 'Till her, to tell. 
 
 Rings loud the bell, 
 
 Outside the door he towers. 
 
 Page three 
 
RHYMES OF AN AMATEUR POET 
 
 A laughing moon, 
 A dainty waist, 
 An arm, two pair of lips. 
 First one and then the other 
 Of love's sweet nectar sips. 
 * * * 
 
 A little ring that sparkles 
 
 In a pretty plush lined box; 
 
 A question and an answer. 
 
 Then the great, big, wide world rocks. 
 
 * * * 
 
 A nervous chat with father, 
 A reddish blush or two ; 
 If his answer is affirmative. 
 You have no more to do. 
 
 * * * 
 
 AViLD excitement round her house, 
 A trousseau they're preparing. 
 In the fellow's domicile, 
 Some such thing worth comparing. 
 
 * * * 
 
 A minister, a Good Book, 
 
 A best man and a band. 
 
 A band that plays a silent tune. 
 
 The loudest in the land, 
 
 A solemn vow, two promises, 
 
 A kiss, a lot of rice, 
 
 A honeymoon, its over — 
 
 Now doesn't it sound nice? ?????? 
 
 Pag« lour 
 
RHYMES OF AN AMATEUR POET 
 
 THE OCEAN OF LIFE. 
 
 1 HERE is an old, old vessel, 
 Sails an ancient sea. 
 With an aged skipper 
 Steering you and me. 
 The time drags on 
 And the port seems far, 
 Soon is spirit gone, 
 Hope a broken spar; 
 And it all takes place, 
 This endless race, 
 On the course of life's Ambition. 
 
 On the swirling, whirling, deceiving 
 
 Ocean of life, we often blunder, 
 
 While we're paling, failing, sailing 
 
 Through strife, we stop to wonder. 
 
 But the reason is plain ; 
 
 The ship is too vast; 
 
 So many lives cannot cling to one mast. 
 
 If each one were swimming. 
 
 And striving to live 
 
 Without a reliance in what others give, 
 
 There would be no more drowning 
 
 In waters of strife. 
 
 But a smooth sailing trip on the Ocean of Life. 
 
 Page five 
 
RHYMES OF AN AMATEUR POET 
 
 A CALLER. 
 
 Door bell started rin^in', 
 Filled us with dismay. 
 Father put his shoes on, 
 An' layed his pipe away. 
 
 Sister got a whisk broom 
 And dusted off a chair. 
 Aunt Ann at a mirror 
 Started fixin' up her hair. 
 
 I sat still and watched 'em, 
 An' never said a word, 
 I was that excited 
 I never could've stirred. 
 
 They folded up the papers, 
 An' dusted pictures, too. 
 They acted kind of nervous. 
 Like folks what's movin' do. 
 
 The whole bunch got most tired to death, 
 
 A runnin' in an' out. 
 
 An' honest injun, I don't know 
 
 Just what 'twas all about. 
 
 Page six 
 
RHYMES OF AN AMATEUR POET 
 
 Then when they got all ready, 
 And everything was straight, 
 The door bell ringin' on and on, 
 Most seven times or eight. 
 
 Sister tangoes to the door, 
 An' I'm a laughin' still, 
 'Cause it wasn't anybody 
 But a feller with a bill. 
 
 Page seven 
 
RHYMES OF AN AMATEUR POET 
 
 THE SCARLET TRAIL. 
 
 Ha, ha," croaked the Devil, 
 "I've one more soul 
 To guide through 
 The Scarlet Trail; 
 A lad this time, 
 A sweet boy, too." 
 He chuckled and wagged his tail. 
 
 "Let me see," he sighed, 
 
 *Tf I cannot find 
 
 Some new sights 
 
 Here to show." 
 
 Then he led the lad 
 
 To a place, where he knew 
 
 Was a dangerous undertow. 
 
 *TlRST ril introduce him," said he. 
 
 "To my old friend Cigarette; 
 
 A fellow he'll find 
 
 The best in the land. 
 
 Who will stick by him 
 
 Through thick and thin, 
 
 Ready to lend a hand," 
 
 Page eight 
 
RHYMES OF AN AMATEUR POET 
 
 "Next, with old friend Barleycorn 
 
 I'll make the lad acquainted; 
 
 He is always cool 
 
 And strong of will, 
 
 He is good and bad, 
 
 Yet he makes you gay 
 
 And liberal too, when he sends his bill." 
 
 *'NOW for a woman, 
 
 He must see her. 
 
 I'll show her 
 
 In splendor grand; 
 
 For a woman's touch 
 
 Means everything 
 
 With an innocent lad in hand." 
 
 **I'LL choose a girl 
 
 Who has been the rounds; 
 
 I know a beautiful lass. 
 
 One of my pupils she is. 
 
 She will lure him on 
 
 'Till his mind is gone; 
 
 She will teach him how to love." 
 
 Page nine 
 
RHYMES OF AN AMATEUR POET 
 
 The Devil sat down 
 
 And held his sides, 
 
 He gurgled and laughed and roared, 
 
 With merriment bubbled o'er; 
 
 Then remembered the work 
 
 He never could shirk; 
 
 He picked himself up off the floor. 
 
 '*IT'S all so simple, 
 
 The way they fall. 
 
 They never stop for thought ; 
 
 Just shut their eyes 
 
 And plunge ahead, 
 
 'Till every inch 
 
 Of their soul is dead." 
 
 "Now for a trip 
 
 To the music halls 
 
 Of vivid disrepute ; 
 
 Some more of the ugly game. 
 
 Here of passion the boy shall learn, 
 
 And more of life shall glean ; 
 
 See, he's coming nearer 
 
 To utter despair and shame." 
 
 Page ten 
 
RHYMES OF AN AMATEUR POET 
 
 **YOU think I am cruel, 
 
 But Fm not, I vow; 
 
 My interests all lie above; 
 
 I love the world, 
 
 But my work is teaching 
 
 That evils exist, 
 
 And examples must be unfurled." 
 
 *'So I'll rob him of pride; 
 
 I'll steal his soul; 
 
 I'll worry him on 
 
 To the end of time. 
 
 At last I'll drive him relentlessly 
 
 To the hottest regions 
 
 Of Satan's clime." 
 
 Then the Devil stood up; 
 
 He yawned and stretched 
 
 And laughed and sang 
 
 And danced from side to side ; 
 
 Then he looked on his work 
 
 With sparkling eyes, 
 
 As he said with evident pride — 
 
 "My work is done. 
 
 He is started now; 
 
 There is nothing more, 
 
 I have set his sail. 
 
 He'll go on and on, 
 
 And he'll never know 
 
 That he's treading the Scarlet Trail." 
 
 Page eleven 
 
RHYMES OF AN AMATEUR POET 
 
 HE SUFFERS. 
 
 Dedicated sympathetically to the average lad with 
 his first pair of long trousers. 
 
 1 would I were a willow, 
 
 Waving in her backyard; 
 
 Though better still in bread she eats, 
 
 I would I were the lard. 
 
 I would I were the hairpins 
 
 That hold her lovely hair; 
 
 Though better still I would I were 
 
 The object of her stare. 
 
 I would I were the hat pins 
 
 That fasten her pretty hat; 
 
 Yet better still I would I were 
 
 The door key to her flat. 
 
 I would I were the garments 
 
 That cling to her like glue. 
 
 In other words, I'd like to stick around her; 
 
 Wouldn't you? 
 
 Page twelve 
 
RHYMES OF AN A MATEUR POET 
 
 LOVE'S MEMORY. 
 
 1 dreamed a most wonderful dream last night, 
 
 Of a girl whom I loved years ago. 
 
 It seemed as though we were sweethearts again, 
 
 In our mountains where sweet breezes blow. 
 
 I thought we were strolling through beautiful fields, 
 
 And again by a babbling brook, 
 
 Through wonderful gardens we wandered on, 
 
 'Twas just like the love in a story book. 
 But 'twas only a dream. 
 No matter how sweet, 
 No matter how sad I might be. 
 My one dearest friend 
 Gave my heart it's death rend, 
 When he stole my dear loved one from me. 
 
 I could hardly believe that it was the dear girl, 
 'Till she mentioned sweet mem'ries of yore, 
 Of beautiful hours in rose covered bowers, 
 And our walks on the pebbley shore. 
 She married the man for the money he had ; 
 Her life was a horrible dream. 
 
 I thought that death's gate was her false lover's fate. 
 That her love would come drifting to me. 
 But 'twas only a dream. 
 No matter how sweet. 
 No matter how sad I might be. 
 My one dearest friend 
 Gave my heart it's death rend. 
 When he stole my dear loved one from me. 
 
 Page thirteen 
 
RHYMES OF AN AMATEUR POET 
 
 INSPIRATION. 
 
 1 HE morning sun shone golden, 
 O'er the distant hills of green. 
 The birds were singing in the trees ; 
 A most delightful scene. 
 
 The sunrise told a story 
 Of a newly budding world ; 
 The coming of another day, 
 The robes of night unfurled. 
 
 No poet could describe the hills, 
 In all their stately beauty; 
 A bit of Nature's handiwork ; 
 To God above — her duty. 
 
 The birds in all their glory, 
 As they flit from limb to limb, 
 Would fill a weary soul with joy 
 And ever-lasting vim. 
 
 A rippling stream falls bubbling, 
 O'er the rocks beside the road; 
 Such a picture, let me tell you, 
 Lifts an awfully heavy load. 
 
 A dream of truth quite golden, 
 
 Void of mock or imitation; 
 
 A gift of God Almighty, 
 
 Aye, His children's INSPIRATION. 
 
 Page fourteen 
 
RHYMES OF AN A M A T E l^ R POET 
 
 TWO LITTLE LOVERS. 
 
 1 WO little lovers sit gazing. 
 As two little lovers will do, 
 With two little smiles on their faces ; 
 The way it once happened to yon. 
 
 Their minds are at peace with the world; 
 Their souls are in perfect commune; 
 Their silence has many big things to say, 
 As they sit through the long afternoon. 
 
 Her eyes are like stars in the heavens. 
 Her hair like the purest of gold, 
 Her teeth are a beautiful pearly white, 
 Her nose like the Grecian of old. 
 
 In truth, she's the fairest of damsels, 
 Quite worthy the love of a king. 
 Her figure reminds one of delicate leaves 
 Swaying in breezes of Spring. 
 
 You can see at a glance what a lovely wife 
 This beautiful girl would make; 
 And the fellow sat still, as though in a sleep 
 From which he would never awake. 
 
 These two are the sort who always agree. 
 Who never have angry words. 
 Who never become a bit jealous 
 Or misrepresent what they've heard. 
 
 Page fifteen 
 
RHYMES OF AN AMATEUR POET 
 
 I N short, they're an ideal couple, 
 The "one in ten thousand" brand, 
 Their souls are alike and that is enough ; 
 Between them they understand. 
 
 And though they are not in a moonlit park, 
 With no one for miles around, 
 They sit there the same silent lovers. 
 They make not the slightest sound. 
 
 XHEY sit in a little room back of a store, 
 Where they work when they don't sit staring; 
 Of noise and excitement around them, 
 Apparently never caring. 
 
 Look, you can almost see them move. 
 About to embrace one another. 
 Their cheeks are aflush with a tint of pink; 
 No doubt they love each other. 
 
 Now right in the midst of their dreams of love, 
 Without any warning whatever, 
 A man breaks in on their reverie. 
 With intent their communion to sever. 
 
 And just at the happiest moment. 
 
 The divinest hour of their day. 
 
 They are dragged from the cloakhouse storeroom 
 
 And thrust into a window display. 
 
 Page sixteen 
 
RHYMES OF AN AMATEUR POET 
 
 NEWSIE PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 
 Picture yourself peering into a narrow, not altogether tidy, back alley. 
 Picture an urchin about ten years of age seated on a broken barrel, reading a 
 torn paper covered volume with rigid industry. Imagine, if you can, that you 
 have been following his career for five years or more. With the information 
 you possess as a result of this imaginary acquaintance, you will know that he 
 has made what there is of his existence with the strength of his two arms; that 
 he never had a father to remember, and that since old enough to appreciate a 
 mother, he has been without her loving tenderness. You have likely surmised 
 by now that his association with curbstone life has quickened his wits. You 
 are probably familiar with his mode of speech, unless you have never ventured 
 far enough into the street to have been approached for the sale of the latest 
 news. Then picture a comrade entering the alley to find his friend absorbed 
 in print. This older boy, by perhaps two or three years, considers himself a 
 learned old philosopher beside his younger companion. Sit with me for a few 
 moments on a row of kegs in a narrow alley and listen to the ensuing 
 conversation. 
 
 The older boy, happily. 
 
 Hello, Chimmie. 
 The Younger, peevishly. 
 
 Hello, Sid. 
 The older, happily. 
 
 Wot 'er yuh doin'? 
 The younger, aggravated. 
 
 Avv^, readin' a bit. 
 The older, happily. 
 
 Wot er' yuh readin'? Give us a tip. 
 The younger, angrily. 
 
 Aw, sumpin' abot a guy wid da pip. 
 
 Beat it away an' lemme alone, 
 
 Yur alwus chewin' a rag ur a bone. 
 The older, disgruntled. 
 
 Well, yuh needin get sore wid me, yuh grouch, 
 
 I'll give yuh a kick in yur mail pouch. 
 
 Page seventeen 
 
RHYMES OF AN AMATEUR POET 
 
 The younger, with bravado. 
 
 Say, don't pick no scrap wid me, simp guy ; 
 
 Dig out yur ears an' listen why; 
 
 I'm readin', see, improvin' me nut; 
 
 Dat's wat you oughta be doin', yuh mut. 
 
 Say, you an' me has been pals a long while, 
 
 I been tryin' to slip yuh me style. 
 
 We been loafin' around an' sleepin' fer years, 
 
 Spendin' dough fer smokin' an' beers. 
 
 Now listen to me wid yur vacooum dome; 
 
 Did yuh ever hear of this Lingkun guy, 
 
 Wot studied an' read 'till he wore out his eye? 
 
 Well, he was a poor kid like me an' you. 
 
 But he didn' loaf. No, wot did he do? 
 
 He laid on da ground wid a candle, dats all, 
 
 He never come tru like you, wid a stall, 
 
 Dat he did know sumpin' he didn' know; 
 
 He woiked wid his dome 'till he loined it, bo. 
 
 An' wot did dey do, de guys all around? 
 
 Dey made 'im dere chief, dere importenest houn' 
 
 An' wot did he do? Did he loaf an' stall? 
 
 He got up wid de whole bunch aroun' in da hall. 
 
 An' tole 'em to fight fer da niggars, dats all. 
 
 Jes' grab dere guns, git out an' scrap. 
 
 Shoot up da country, change da map. 
 
 An' den he went out from town to town, 
 
 Lettin' 'em all know wid a big loud soun', 
 
 Dat niggars was free, dere was no more slaves ; 
 
 Believe me, bo, dat guy was brave. 
 
 Page eighteen 
 
RHYMES OF AN AMATEUR POET 
 
 The older boy, counselling. 
 
 Wid lots a head woik, listen to me, 
 
 Dere was two gangs fightin'; wasn' dere two? 
 
 Da soudern gang an' de nordern blue? 
 
 Now look a here, Chimmie, don' kid wid me, 
 
 'Cause I been readin' a bit me self, see. 
 
 An' I got a hunch on dis hist'ry stuff 
 
 Wot's got yurs frazzled an' billed a bluff. 
 
 I s'pose yuh forgot dis Washinton guy, 
 
 Wid da trutful tongue an' da weder eye. 
 
 Yuh see de edecation I got, well, bo. 
 
 Don't start preachin' 'till yuh know wot yuh know. 
 
 An' yuh never finished dis Lingkun yarn. 
 
 Wot did he do when de fightin' was done? 
 
 I s'pose he went out an' come home wid a bun 
 
 To celebrate, or mebe his chest 
 
 Was trun in de air 
 
 To make 'im important 
 
 Or trow 'em a scare? Naw, he didn'. 
 
 Now listen to me, I'll show yuh wot I know 
 
 Dat yuh don' know; gee, yur a regular simp 
 
 Wid dis lernin' stuff, an' den yuh come handin' 
 
 Me yer guff. I'll tell yuh wot dis guy 
 
 Pulled off; he clears his troat 
 
 An' pulls a cough, an' he says : 
 
 Brudders and sisters of dis great nation, 
 
 To help remember dat we're a square gang, 
 
 W^e'll stick up a tombstone fer da fightin' gang. 
 
 Da very next day dey started a tower — 
 
 Dat Bunker Hill monument t'ing. 
 
 An' dey v/oiked every hour 'till dey had it done, 
 
 Page nineteen 
 
RHYMES OF AN AMATEUR POET 
 
 Dat's wot dey did. Den dey put up a sign 
 On a big sheet of brass, wot said, '*Dis fer slaves," 
 An' ''Keep off da grass." Yuh t'ink yur wise 
 Wid dis hist'ry stuff. Shocks, yur full 
 A hot air an' bluff. Yur one of dese heimers 
 Wot knows de woild. If de trut was known 
 Yur brains is soiled. Wen ever yur tinkin' 
 Dat yuh know it all, some guy wot don* talk, bo, 
 '11 slip yuh a fall. Jes' git de idea 
 Dat yur here wid a crowd, 
 Wen odders are wid yuh, don' holler so loud. 
 They leave the alley, arm in arm, the best of friends. 
 
 Page twenty 
 
RHYiiES OF AN AMATEUR POET 
 
 MOTHER, GOD BLESS YOUR HEART. 
 
 INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 
 A foolish man, as manjr men are, accosted a party of club 
 members who found him interesting enough to take him with 
 them. He was ragged, soiled, and stained with drink ; still 
 he had a soul. Every man has a soul. Sometimes it is smoth- 
 ered, sometimes it awakens as it did in this man. The follow- 
 ing is what the man related as he sat before the fire among 
 these men who pitied him : 
 
 1 suppose I do look a drunken sot, 
 
 A down an' outer a bum ; 
 
 Yes, I know I do, as well as you, 
 
 The reason? sure, it's rum. 
 
 But it ain't because I'm bad clean through, 
 
 There's some good in me yet; 
 
 That's why I want to tell you my tale 
 
 Of a life that's been wrong, you can bet. 
 
 (A slight pause.) 
 
 I was blessed by a mother, the best in the world, 
 
 None any better could live. 
 
 What she did for me was all could be done 
 
 An' she gave to me all she could give. 
 
 Why, say, in them days I was happy and young 
 
 An' strong, the same as you. 
 
 There wasn't a thing under God's blue sky 
 
 For that mother, I wouldn't do. 
 
 (A slight pause as tears fill his eyes.) 
 
 Then she died, pals, (pause) died and left me 
 
 At a time when I needed her most. 
 
 (He rubs his eyes, gazing vaguely into space.) 
 
 Look ! there she is now, 
 
 A kind of a hazy ghost, (pause) Humph ! (pause) 
 I grew to be twenty-two, an' I met a girl, 
 
 Page twenty-one 
 
RHYMES OF AN AMATEUR POET 
 
 As sweet as a buddin' rose. 
 
 Say, pals, I never in all my life — 
 
 Seen such wonderful eyes as those. 
 
 Her glance seemed to come right from her soul 
 
 An' it went deep down to mine. 
 
 One day she promised to be my wife 
 
 Humm — then my sun began to shine. 
 
 We married an' lived quite happy awhile. 
 
 Me and my wife and her pretty smile. 
 
 We never had much, we was moderate fixed, 
 
 But we did have a right happy home, 
 
 (His smile at this sweet memory suddenly changes to 
 
 an expression of grief) 
 
 'Till one day the firm sent me north on a trip, 
 
 So I had to leave her alone. 
 
 'Twas only a month I had to be gone, 
 
 I promised to write every day; 
 
 I kissed her and left her and hurried along. 
 
 (A lump of memory chokes him. He gasps for breath.) 
 
 The rest of it's hard to say. (pause) 
 
 I'm all choked up, my mouth is parched, 
 
 Haven't got a small drink to spare? 
 
 (They hand him a drink to quench his thirst. With 
 
 a swallow it disappears.) 
 
 Thanks, pal, that's good of you sure, 
 
 I'll repay you someday, that's fair. 
 
 (He wipes his lips on his coat sleeve.) 
 
 Now I'll finish my tale, there ain't much more, 
 
 Then you can sit an' think 
 
 (They hand him a second glass, the contents of which 
 follow the first with a like rapidity.) 
 
 Page twenty-two 
 
RHYMES OF AN AMATEUR POET 
 
 Thanks, pal, I didn't expect you to 
 
 Bring me another drink. 
 
 (Again he wipes his lips on his coat sleeve.) 
 
 Well, I wrote to her regular every day 
 
 But narry an answer came. 
 
 (In retrospective soliloquy.) 
 
 I've often wondered if she was wrong. 
 
 Or if I was the one to blame. 
 
 (He speaks faster.) 
 
 It worried me, pals, I couldn't sleep. 
 
 So I started direct for home. 
 
 Arriving there I found her gone. 
 
 The place was cold and alone. 
 
 I hunted and searched with never a sign, 
 
 Save a note that I've always kept, (pause) 
 
 Since that day, believe me or not, 
 
 There ain't been a night I've slept, (pause) 
 
 Maybe you'd like to hear the note, 
 
 (He takes a letter from his inner pocket. It is old, 
 
 torn and dirty, the result of repeated reading.) 
 
 I'll read it as part of my tale. 
 
 It struck me dumb, it made me sick. 
 
 That was the wind that shattered my sail. 
 
 (He takes the letter from the envelope and reads.) 
 
 Dear Tom, try not to feel bad, 
 
 I'm sorry it had to come. 
 
 I know I'm not worthy of even a thought, 
 
 I know I'd not get it from some. 
 
 I've tried to reconcile myself 
 
 To our little mean existence, 
 
 But I can't, Tom, I simply can't, 
 
 Though I've tried with fierce persistence. 
 
 Page twenty-three 
 
RHYMES OF AN AMATEUR POET 
 
 I've been offered a life full of wonderful things, 
 
 O, I know I'm weak to give way, 
 
 But there's no use crying, it's all done now. 
 
 Good-bye Tom, good luck 'till the end. 
 
 (A sob of emotion convulses his body.) 
 
 My God! Did you hear? 
 
 She left me like that, with never another word; 
 
 That's years ago and since that day, 
 
 Not a thing of the girl have I heard. 
 
 It drove me mad with sorrov/. (pause) 
 
 'Twas then I started drinking 
 
 To sort of drown my remorse ; 
 
 Now there's only one thing left to do, 
 
 Go on and follow the course. 
 
 (With vehemence.) 
 
 Good God ! what a woman can do to a man. 
 
 When she sets herself up to do it ; 
 
 And she's the one who soon forgets. 
 
 While the man, poor fool, lives to rue it. 
 
 I've tried to brace up more than once in the years, 
 
 Thinking perhaps she'd come back. 
 
 (His eyes are aflame with hatred.) 
 
 The thief who stole her away? Curse him! 
 
 I'd like to tear him limb from limb, (pause) 
 
 Nobody wants me, I'm broken, 
 
 I'm only a wreck of a tramp; 
 
 The only place I'm welcome 
 
 Is out in the cold and the damp, (pause) 
 
 (Fiercely) Sometimes I wish I had the nerve 
 
 To end it all with a stroke; 
 
 (Brokenly) But I haven't, she left me a broken coward. 
 
 Page twenty. four 
 
RHYMES OF AN AMATEUR POET 
 
 I've got to live and suffer and poke 
 
 Around 'till the end of time. 
 
 (He makes a pause as though listening.) 
 
 What's that? (pause) What's that I heard you say? 
 
 My mother? — God, I wish she was here. 
 
 She'd know a way to fix it all, 
 
 She'd find a way out, never fear. 
 
 (He places his hand to his ear as though listening to an 
 
 inner voice.) 
 
 I seem to hear voices talking low, 
 
 From away inside they come — 
 
 Listen, for God's sake, listen ! 
 
 Can't you hear? 
 
 It's her! — It's my mother's voice, (pause) 
 
 She wants me to make a clean start. 
 
 I'll bet she's praying for me right now. 
 
 Sure, I'll make a new fight for your sake, Mother, 
 
 God bless vour heart. 
 
 Pafce twenty-five 
 
RHYMES OF AN AMATEUR POET 
 
 THE DRAMA OF '85. 
 
 Many a man is still alive 
 Who remembers the drama of '85, 
 The blood thirsty melo', 
 That straightened your hair 
 And dilated your eyes 
 With a horrified stare. 
 
 lOj 20 or 30 secured you a seat, 
 
 Ten clumsy patrons climbed over your feet. 
 
 Four acts of murder ; 
 
 One act of remorse; 
 
 A kiss and a fight 
 
 Was the general course. 
 
 Recall, if you can, a heroine sweet, 
 
 With an innocent smile 
 
 From her head to her feet. 
 
 Her part was to anger the villain and more ; 
 
 The hero must love her 
 
 As none loved before. 
 
 Picture the hero, a wonderful chap, 
 
 He cleans the cast 
 
 With a single slap. 
 
 He conquers the villain and weds the girl 
 
 With the wonderful eyes 
 
 And the golden curl. 
 
 Page twenty-six 
 
RHYMES OF AN AMATEUR POET 
 
 Now for the villain with vicious beard, 
 
 And a fire in his eyes 
 
 That is much to be feared. 
 
 With his posse of thugs he hastens along-, 
 
 He does all he can 
 
 To set everything wrong. 
 
 Act one is a scene representing a street; 
 The sun is on high, terrific the heat; 
 The villain sneaks on ; 
 The hero stands nigh ; 
 He sees all that happens. 
 But utters no cry. 
 
 Next the old mill, the wheel running fast. 
 
 In this act they kill 
 
 More than half the cast. 
 
 Our hero is tied in a row boat secure 
 
 And dragged toward the mill wheel 
 
 To death that is sure. 
 
 But the heroine happens to be near the spot. 
 
 She severs the rope 
 
 With a bread knife she's got. 
 
 The hero is rescued, a very close shave ; 
 
 Then he hurries his gang 
 
 To the cutthroats' cave. 
 
 Page twenty-seven 
 
RHYMES OF AN AMATEUR POET 
 
 XhEY see him approach, gun fighting ensues ; 
 
 Now the hero unscathed 
 
 Reaches home with the news 
 
 That eleven are dying and seven are dead, 
 
 But none of his own crowd 
 
 Tasted of lead. 
 
 The villain, however, slight wound in his arm. 
 
 Has escaped to the loft 
 
 Of Seth Anderson's barn. 
 
 The next is the last, all worry is o'er ; 
 
 The whole cast is happy. 
 
 Nobody is sore. 
 
 A wedding arranged, a dime novel fad, 
 The hero and heroine blessed by her dad. 
 Then a knock at the door — 
 A deep silence falls; 
 The door is flung open, 
 A crash in the hall. 
 
 The man is picked up 
 
 From the floor where he lies. 
 
 'Tis the villain wants mercy 
 
 **'Ere death comes,'' he sighs. 
 
 The hero repents, the heroine too. 
 
 Do they forgive him? They certainly do. 
 
 Prbc twenty-eight 
 
RHYMES OF AN AMATEUR POET 
 
 Now all feel much better, 
 
 It ends as it should. 
 
 The villain will live, they are glad that he could. 
 
 The audience leaves, thirty cents to the bad. 
 
 Sore at themselves 
 
 For feeling so sad. 
 
 The actors make haste 
 
 To a ham and Qgg joint, 
 
 With Java and snails their stomachs annoint. 
 
 Then up to their rooms awaiting next night, 
 
 When back to the show house 
 
 To murder and fight. 
 
 Page twenty-nine 
 
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